


After the Storm

by Talullah



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21870667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: Aragorn visits his old friend and lover in Pelargir.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31
Collections: Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2019





	After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Galadriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/gifts).



> Warning: there's a tiny mention of rape of a minor character, with absolutely no description of the act.
> 
> Written for Galadriel, for the 2019 Lord of the Rings Secret Santa - I hope you like it! Thank you for all the hard work you and Empy have put into this exchange year after year.
> 
> Many thanks to Hhimring for the beta!

**Pelargir, 4 Fourth Age**

Aragorn impatiently tapped his fingers against the smooth wood of the arm of his chair. He liked it here, in Boromir’s little cottage, cozy and warm, wood everywhere, in the ceiling, the floors, the walls, mostly honeyed pine and chestnut, a few heavier pieces of furniture in mahogany, a sculpture in a startling washed birch. Along with the scent of the crackling pine logs in the hearth, it brought the vaguest memory of his childhood home, something that he should have been too young to remember. Still, he was impatient. He had arrived not even an hour before, but, after greeting him with a bear hug and exchanging a few words, Boromir had gone out to retrieve some sort of surprise from the barracks.

As soon as he had closed the door behind him, Aragorn had started feeling the weight of his never-ending list of responsibilities and the sheer shortness of time that defined his latest years bearing down on him. Trying to distract himself, he started looking around, taking in every detail, as he liked to do whenever he had the chance to come by. An accent of green caught his eye. Upon the table was a large vase filled with fresh branchlets of spruce and holly. Beside it, rested a basket with familiar colours and weave. He rose to his feet to peer inside.

“Arwen,” he muttered with a fond smile, as he took out a jar of honey, a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine. Inside the basket there were still many other things that promised to stimulate his sense of taste, carefully wrapped in linen cloths. His wife had come to Pelargir a week earlier, officially to help with the preparation of the festival, but Arwen was also on a mission of her own, aiming at alleviating some of the poverty the residents of the lower areas had found themselves in after years of attacks by the Corsairs and the final siege on the city, during the War of the Ring.

He walked to the window and stared outside, into the darkening skies, intently focusing on how happy and loved he was, how plentiful his life had become, instead of letting himself be preoccupied by the running list of things to do, or his latest aggravation, as the lords of Minas Tirith, once more, tried to push a bill to increase the taxes on artisans and farmers and reduce them on their large properties and fleets. He had always known politics would be an ugly business. Elrond had made sure to prepare him with books and lectures aplenty. But he had not witnessed or dealt with such things in the affluent society of Imladris where everyone had a high standard of living without the need for intense competition, or the much poorer but reasonably egalitarian communities of the rangers of the north. Gondor was a whirlpool of conflicting interests, and effervescent, ever-changing factions and alliances.

Behind him, the door opened, letting in a gust of wind. He immediately turned to take in the sight of Boromir.

“A puppy!” he exclaimed, upon seeing Boromir’s armful of wiggling fur.

He took the warm, fat bundle of a dog from Boromir’s arms as they both tried to close the door against the cold air blowing in. There were a few moments of confusion as Boromir took off his coat and tried to catch the puppy, who had thrown himself off of Aragorn’s arms into a comfortable armchair from where he kept jumping up and down to the floor.

Aragorn sat on the rug in front of the fire and started playing with the little ball of mischief. He tried to talk to Boromir but the dog had other intentions and kept yapping and tumbling around Aragorn and Boromir, begging for attention. They laughed and indulged him for a while, until he was tired and started to look for a warm, quiet place to take a nap.

“Eh!” Boromir called. “Don’t get all cosy there. You’re going back to your mother for the night.” The dog yawned and carefully placed his nose on his paws.

Aragorn laughed. “He’s a smart one. And he’s going to be very big, too! Look at how large these paws are. How old is he?”

“He should be reaching twelve weeks now.”

Aragorn ran his fingers through the silky fur on the back of the animal. “Tell me more.”

Boromir smiled and reclined against the wall. The fire reflected on his hair, bringing out auburn hues and softening the lines on his face. “I will, gladly. Just let me return him to his mother before the rain starts to really pour down.”

“I’ll go with you,” Aragorn said.

“No, rest here. You’ll have the chance to be with the men tomorrow and, if we go there now, we’ll end up drinking pirate rum until dawn. I want to have you for myself for a while tonight.”

Aragorn nodded, swallowing the knot that formed in his throat. It was odd, how he felt this desire for Boromir. Everything was always odd and new with Boromir, from the very first time their hands had brushed in Imladris, almost by accident. Perhaps it was because they lived so far apart and only saw each other four or five times per year. Perhaps it was the strangeness of their arrangement. There they were, playing with a puppy, like old, close friends whilst the expectation of physical intimacy lingered in the air, although Aragorn was never sure it was going to be offered and he always hesitated in asking. And there was the blessing of his wife, and his concerns for Boromir’s future

Before he could dwell more on his thoughts, Boromir, again, came through the door, bringing with him another gust of nippy air. Aragorn shivered.

“Mulled wine is what you need,” Boromir said, as he took off his wet coat and his muddy boots.

Aragorn smiled. “That sounds good.”

He rose to his feet and went to the table, to help Boromir with the preparations for their supper. He set out the table with a linen cloth, Arwen’s delicacies and Boromir’s humble cutlery, while Boromir sliced some fine ham and cheese and heated soup and the spiced wine.

“Tell me about the puppy, then,” Aragorn asked. “I noticed you only call him ‘Boy’”.

“Well, yes, I haven’t thought of a name for him yet. I wasn’t counting on having a dog, but…”

Aragorn waited as Boromir busied himself with a mouthful of sliced ham. “But?” he eventually insisted.

“But nothing. Things seem to have a way to happen in the most unexpected fashion. I was taking a walk along the South Wall and heard this whimpering. He was abandoned behind a few crates and in bad shape. His eyes were still closed. I looked around and waited for a while, but his mother wouldn’t come back for him and there were no signs of other pups. It smelt of some sort of cruelty. So I picked him up and brought him with me, as I knew Aphador’s bitch had just had puppies. Fortunately, as soon as she saw him, she started licking him and pulling him to her tit.”

Aragorn nodded. “And now you have a dog.”

Boromir made a face that quickly turned into a grin. “Alright, now I have a dog. I admit it.”

Aragorn felt a tingle in the corner of his eye as he grinned back at Boromir. A dog was an unexpected, but very relevant small step for Boromir.

After the War was over, after the coronation, after his wedding, after what little time to mourn his duties allowed him, there had come a letter from a commander in Pelargir, an Aphador Aragorn had barely met, saying that he had a delicate situation in hands, and that the rumour spread in town that Boromir was alive, and that some were already yearning to restore the Stewardship.

Aragorn had shrugged. Rumours and whether to respond to them or not were half his job. The worse half. But another letter had come, where Aphador insisted that Boromir was alive and that he, himself, had verified the story. That the son of the former Steward was staying in the humble house of a widow, that he was very, very sick from infected wounds, hanging between life and death.

Aragorn had left for Pelargir that very same day. It seemed like a lifetime, all the things that had happened, the long journey, the battles, the way his life had changed so profoundly, and yet, not three months had passed since he had last seen Boromir, ashen and cooling, no breath coming from his lips, dead as any other fallen warrior he had seen before. How was that possible? Had Boromir been in a coma and not dead at all? Although rare, such cases were not unheard of. Or was it a lookalike, an impostor? He had to see for himself, and it was time to visit Pelargir too.

Mariam was the widow’s name, and Miriel her daughter. Mariam was fair-skinned, grey-eyed, but her daughter had eyes as black as the night sky and olive skin. The daughter of a southern pirate, for sure, like so many others. Aragorn wondered if Mariam had ever been married indeed, or if Miriel was the result of an act of war. The women told him the same story that Aphador had told him, of how they had found what they thought was a dead body by the shore, with signs of having been robbed of his possessions, and how, when they were about to call the guard to take him, they had seen his hand twitching and had taken him home for healing.

As Aragorn entered their small home, he immediately saw the bed in the middle of the room. His throat clenched as he approached it, but then, upon seeing Boromir unconscious, burning in fever, he had no time for contemplation. It had taken him plenty of athelas and quite a few weeks of sleepless nights to bring his old companion to a state where they could transport him to Minas Tirith, but by then Boromir would not hear of it.

He said that he would not want to have his name used by those who are always discontent and power-hungry to unbalance the new king’s reign. Though still feeble in body, Boromir’s resolve was stronger than ever. Aragorn had been forced to return to Minas Tirith, to tend to the many issues that a city and country ravaged by war faced, but had returned as often as he could until he was sure that Boromir was fully healed.

On one of these later visits, Boromir had confessed to Aragorn that he was happier as a soldier in a faraway outpost than as a courtier, and that he was still embarrassed and guilty for his moment of weakness, with the Ring. Aragorn had tried to object, but after much conversation, Boromir had held Aragorn’s hand to his heart and had whispered, “For me, it was not just a tryst.”

Aragorn stood there speechless, remembering that one night that their exchange of glances had come to a hungry kiss, to hasty fumbling in the dark, tempered with random words of apology, desire, confusion, love. His heart swelled, even as Boromir had let go of his hand saying, “It would hurt me to see you constantly ever out of my reach.”

Aragorn had taken his hand again, drawing him closer, but Boromir had continued, “For all that you might tell me about elven customs and how your bride would not blink at the thought that you might share your body and affections with someone else, it would not be appropriate. Or good for your reputation, and these things are always known. That is, admitting the possibility that you might even reciprocate any of my feelings.”

“But I do,” Aragorn had said, holding Boromir even closer. “But I do,” he had repeated, as he had slowly drawn away, realizing the truth in Boromir’s words.

Still, on his next visit to Pelargir, for the purpose of investing Boromir with the command of the South Wall garrison, they had found themselves kissing passionately, before Boromir had, again, drawn away. Later, Aragorn had told Arwen about this thing that gnawed at him, as he told her everything else. Lying in his arms, she kindly said, “Give it time.”

And time had been the key.

“You’re very pensive,” Boromir said, running his fingers along Aragorn’s hair, tucking a few strands behind his ear. “Everything alright?”

Aragorn smiled. “Yes. I’m just happy that you have the dog. He needs a name.”

“I know! How about Thorongil?” teased Boromir.

Aragorn laughed. “Well, that may as well be. It’s as good a name as any.”

“I barely remember you from those times,” Boromir said fondly. “Didn’t you use to have a very large, greyish hound?”

“Yes, I did! He was a sweet thing.”

“I was incredibly scared of him, until the day he licked me up and down.”

Aragorn laughed.

“But my dog is going to be as big as yours, I think. He has quite large bones already.”

“Looks like he’s going to be a good hound,” Aragorn concurred. “Did you see how he grabbed that pillow between his teeth and just wouldn’t let go? Fierce, determined little ball of fur.”

“That he is.”

Both men smiled. Aragorn hesitated in saying that was on his mind but as Boromir started slicing more bread he let out the words.

“I’m glad you accepted him into your life, but, I must repeat myself, your solitude worries me.”

Boromir sighed. This conversation was not new. “I have my brother and his son and wife, I have good friends in the men of my garrison, I have you.”

“Faramir lives in Ithilien and you barely see each other. The men in your garrison are fine people indeed but their friendship, for all its worth is not the same as you having a family and a home of your own.”

“You have talked to me endlessly about how elven couples can live apart for many years, and Gandalf, whom we both admire so, was not he unmarried?”

“Gandalf and elves are immortal and you are not!”

“Why must we always discuss this whenever you come?!”

Boromir closed his eyes and pinched his nose before repeating, with softer voice, “Why must we always discuss this whenever you come?” He looked up at Aragorn, “Do you want us to part as lovers, is that it?”

“No, no,” Aragorn said, taking his hand. “I just worry about this reluctance you have in being close to other people, other beings. I worry.”

“I don’t have a reluctance,” Boromir said, “and don’t look so smug because I now have a dog.”

Aragorn tried to contain a chortle with little success. Boromir looked at him, very serious for a second, but then both burst into laughter.

“By Sauron’s balls, we’re incorrigible,” Boromir said, amidst chortles, as the laughter subsided.

“By Sauron’s balls?” Aragorn inquired. “Isn’t it far too soon, after the War? And I’d say by Sauron’s wilted, stinky balls, at the very least.”

“Good riddance to the wilted, stinky balls and their owner,” Boromir concurred.

He rose and headed to the tiny counter that served as kitchen in this cottage he insisted on inhabiting. “Arwen sent a spicy tea. Let’s try that.”

Taking his cue, Aragorn started lifting the table. “Listen,” he said as he worked, “you know I don’t mean to disrespect you and your autonomy in any way.”

Boromir sighed as he lifted the iron kettle and walked across the room to heat it up in the hearth. “I know. I know you worry, and I suspect you feel guilty that you have Arwen and the prospect of a family to come and I have none. But that has never been my heart’s desire. We’re not all alike and I might not want or need the same things as you. If it makes you happy,” Boromir said, sitting down on the rug, legs crossed at the ankles, “I’ve been giving much thought to marrying Miriel. They need protection, still, two single women living alone, and you know how the people of Pelargir treat the sons and daughters of the Corsair raids...”

“Good,” Aragorn said, trying to ignore the tinge of jealousy that crept bitter into his mouth. “She obviously adores you and would do anything to make you happy. And if someone of your rank marries a girl of her background perhaps it will even help to open up a few minds. Pelargir needs to come to terms with its past and understand that the children of rape are not the enemy but victims themselves. How hard their lives are, unprotected by a father and disdained by all... But I do hope that you do it out of more than gratitude towards her and her mother or the need to send a political or social message. For her sake as well as your own.”

Boromir nodded. “Yes. I am truly fond of her. Still, it will be a big responsibility, not to break her heart with my idiosyncrasies. Marriage is tough or so they say. Can we talk about all that in the morning, please?” he suddenly added, as an afterthought. “I promise you that, alone or otherwise, I am and will remain happy.”

Aragorn nodded.

They were silent for a little while, while the water heated. Through the window now only darkness could be seen and through the gusts of wind the first rain could be heard hammering the roof and the windows without any clemency.

“I’ve missed you,” Aragorn said at last, reaching to caress Boromir’s cheek with his fingers.

Boromir caught his hand and kissed his fingers. “I’ve missed you too,” he replied, his eyes darkening. “Come here,” he said, pulling Aragorn to himself, searching for his mouth.

They kissed for a long time, their fingers caressing hair, cupping cheeks, searching for skin. At least Boromir pulled back a little. “Why is it that with you it’s always like the first time?”

Aragorn swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “For me too.”

He lay back on the floor, pulling Boromir until he lay atop him. He knew that when they took their tunics off he would see Boromir’s scars and it would hurt him anew, and he knew that in a week’s time he’d be back in Minas Tirith, with his wife, that, for all its goodness, would hurt too. And he knew that if Boromir married the girl, it would hurt too. He kissed Boromir again and turned so that both lay on the floor, side by side.

“The bed or here?” he asked.

“Here,” Boromir said, reaching for a large fur.

~~~

The next day, the sky had cleared. There was still a crisp breeze but it felt good to be outside, under the sun that turned the water to silver, blinding them as they stood at the top of the walls and Boromir showed Aragorn the progress they were making. By their side, Boy or Thorongil as Aragorn had taken to call him, despite Boromir’s protests, wagged his tail, happy to be outside, ready to pour all his love onto Boromir at the smallest opportunity. And also ready to get into mischief, as the string of sausages he had stolen from a vendor and Boromir had to rush back to pay clearly proved.

The people and the land were starting to emerge from the long, deep fear of the enemy, and the streets below them were bustling with people, colours, smells. A lively port city was always quite the spectacle, to Aragorn’s eyes. Quietly, Aragorn took Boromir’s hand in his as they stood watching.

“It is lovely here. A good place to build a home.”

Boromir nodded. “And we’re only starting to rebuild.”

Aragorn squeezed his hand. “Come, time to go down.”

It was the end of the year. Spring and a new year were starting, and the city was honoured by the presence of the King, who, after a night catching up with his old friend, the son of the old Steward, was now moving into the mansion of the mayor of the city, where his elven wife awaited him. Later there would be wine and food on the streets, and music, and fireworks. Every corner would have a garland of greenery, decorated with gold and silver ribbons, every light would be lit in every street. The children would receive a toy and new clothes, sweethearts would celebrate their betrothal, married couples would bicker, dance, laugh, then go home to make another child, and the mayor would try to convince everyone to vote for him in the next year, in this quite odd experiment in governance that the king had invented for the city, after its nobility had perished in the war.

And the King, the Queen, the Son of the Steward, the girl Miriel, and every one would have their bellies full of food, their ears ringing with music and their hearts full of hope and love.

_Finis  
December 2019_


End file.
